The Lost Tales of A Steward's Son
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: This story follows the little-known youngest son of Denethor, who has an eye more on gaining fame for himself than on peace in the land, as the War of the Ring begins. ON HIATUS.
1. Darkness

I'd like to say that _Lost Tales Of A Steward's Son_'s initials are LTOASS. I just thought you'd like to know that. Oh, also, I own my original character. Funny how that works, eh? But I do not own any of Tolkein's characters because— well— they're Tolkein's aren't they?

Chapter One: Darkness

Darkness crept over the horizon. The sun had sunk below the horizon, the last bright rays reflected in the eyes of a man who stood on the battlements of a castle, surveying the land stretched out before him with a judgmental gaze.

The eyes were blue, and the face was handsome and deceptively kind. He looked out on the world, and a perceptible wind blew his pale hair back from his clear brow. He watched the onset of night and smiled to himself.

From inside a voice called to him, the voice of his father. "My son—"

He half-turned and bowed. His father was tall, dignified, and had in recent years acquired a sour-faced expression that wasn't the least bit becoming. "Good evening, Father."

"What's good about it," his father grunted, and shook his head. "Things are going from bad to worse, Son. We've heard of revolts all across the country, uprisings, battles— methinks people are anxious for us to crush evil once and for all."

"Oh, I don't know," answered his youngest son easily. "Evil's what makes life interesting, I think."

Denethor looked at his son and a slight smile stole over his features. "You're so like your brothers in appearance, yet so different in personality. It amazes me, I must say."

"I don't see why it should. I was always the petted one, I'm sure. Its only natural I should achieve adulthood with something other than heroics and stolidity." They turned again to stare out at the land. "I've two brothers between me and responsibility," said the young man reflectively. "No soldier I."

His father turned back to him quickly, all traces of the smile gone. "You're sworn to me, son, and will do as I tell you, of course."

"I neglected to tell you," said his son, pleasantly, "but when I took the oath I did not repeat the words all correctly."

"What?"

"No. When I was meant to say "—I do pledge fealty—" The young man shrugged. "I actually said 'Featly.' Which it was somewhat featly. I was only three at the time." A smile appeared on his handsome features. "Surely you can't hold something from so long ago against me."

Denethor considered this, the sour expression back in its accustomed place, then sighed deeply and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "One of these days you'll have to complete the maturing process, my son. Everyone is expected, when a man, to pull their own weight."

"What about the women?"

"I am going to bed. I'd advise you to do the same." The Steward went back inside, leaving the young man alone on the balcony.

Denhamir, son of Denethor, brother of Boromir and Faramir, twenty-two years old, turned back towards the railing and leant upon it, leaning forward as far as he could without overbalancing. With bright, eager eyes he took in the spectacle of the land being eaten up by advancing darkness.

* * *

Morning dawned, as it usually did, with Boromir leaping from his bed, tripping over his dogs, swearing loudly, banging doors, and generally waking everybody else up whether they liked it or not. Denhamir trailed through the halls of the castle, shivering slightly. The stone walls, floors, and ceilings kept everything cold until the sun had a chance to warm it up.

"Bloody Boromir," he said aloud. "Never gives the sun a chance."

He wandered past Faramir's door, idling till his brother came out, fastening the belt on his uniform. Faramir was much quieter than Boromir, and more earnest than Denhamir, and in incredible awe of his father.

"Good morning to you, brother," he said, smiling gently at his little brother. Denhamir shrugged in answer, and trailed along behind him as he walked towards the kitchens. Faramir made a custom of eating by himself, taking food directly from the kitchens and carrying it outside.

"Some soldier of Gondor," said Denhamir to him, "not even eating with your fellows."

Faramir smiled again, and shook his head. "I'm not fond of the way they eat, I must say. Think on it, we've only fifty soldiers garrisoned here at the moment, the rest in their own homes. They eat enough for a hundred, and half the food ends up on the floor."

"Well, then it all evens out," said Denhamir philosophically.

"We've got the most well-fed dogs in Gondor."

"That we have," Denhamir agreed.

Reaching the kitchens, Faramir took bread from a cupboard, and a skin of ale. He indicated by a series of stilted, complicated gestures that his brother was welcome to join him. Only Faramir, Denhamir thought wryly, could make asking his brother to eat with him look like he was awkwardly trying to arrange a tryst with a loose woman.

"No thanks," he said. "I'll take my chances with the soldiers."

Faramir nodded. "Suit yourself, brother."

"I always do, don't I?"

Denhamir left the kitchens and headed for the great dining hall. It was full of tables, most over twenty-five feet long, but only two of them were occupied, nearly full-up with Gondorian soldiers, all talking loudly and grabbing food. This was perfectly customary and Denhamir was used to it. He knew that in five minutes time his father would appear to review the troops, who would immediately go dead silent and dignified. _Trying to make a good impression_. Denhamir snorted. _Failing_. Denethor tended towards unfavorable opinions of everyone, save for Boromir, who could do no wrong, and the soldiers weren't immune to this any more than Denhamir was.

Boromir entered the room, trailed by adoring dogs who had learnt to see his frequent and violent abuse of them for the affection it really was. The soldiers quickly made a place for him, and he quickly dominated the conversation, laughing loudly about some exploit or other involving a confused innkeeper's daughter and about three barrels of ale. Denhamir smiled tolerantly, leaning against the wall in his corner. Most of Boromir's tales were made up specifically to entertain his fellow soldiers. He'd explained this to Denhamir once.

"They expect me to keep them amused," he'd said. "That's my main purpose here, you see. That's why they tolerate me, even when they know I'm going to take on responsibilites as Steward, instead of ostracizing me for not being one of them. That's why Faramir has such difficulty, I think. He's not learnt to be entertaining." The thought of Faramir being entertaining made Denhamir smile.

The Lord Denethor marched into the room, sour expression in place, robes sweeping the floor behind him. The soldiers sat up straight and began to eat in a orderly manner. Denhamir smirked and shook his head.

"Good morning, my men," said Denethor. "After breakfast, Boromir, you will come to my private apartments. There is a matter of great importance we must discuss."

Boromir stood and bowed haphazardly. "If its anything to do with the recent battle and the spoils we took—" he started, and Denethor shook his head.

"No. Something quite apart from the last battle." He seemed to notice the expectant looks with which the soldiers were regarding him, and inclined his head to them. "Carry on."

They bowed their heads to their plates once more, and began eating with knives and forks instead of their hands. Denethor, clearly aware of their discomfort and restraint, watched them a few minutes more, which resulted in the following exchange:

"Achelas," said Adiron, and cleared his throat. "Please, um, pass the, um, salt?"

"Of course," Achelas responded stiffly, and did so.

"Thank you, Achelas."

"No, thank you, Adiron."

Denhamir laughed out loud, and continued doing so as he walked from the room. His father joined him in the hall.

"If you are not careful, Son, you will earn the dislike of your fellow soldiers. They can see that you have little respect for them."

"They're not my fellow soldiers," said Denhamir, "and I could not care less what they think of me. As for my respect, I likely have as much for them as you, and possibly more. It's not important. What are you going to yell at Boromir about?"

Denethor frowned at him. "Why do you assume I am going to yell at your brother? He's too old to yell at. I never yell at Boromir. And anyway I never yell."

"Usually when you call him into your room its to stand him down about something or other. What has he done this time?"

"No more than usual."

"Then why are you going to talk to him privately?"

Denethor lost his patience with his youngest son, and began to stalk off, calling over his shoulder, "If Boromir sees fit, he will notify you of what I am to say to him. If not, you will find out along with everyone else."

A light scowl appeared on Denhamir's face as he watched his father disappear down the hall, but it altered and bloomed into a smile. Boromir would tell him what was going on. Boromir could be counted on not to keep his mouth shut.


	2. Faramir

Chapter Three: Faramir

Faramir walked along the unpaved road, scuffing his feet in the dust, observing the movements of small animals and birds as they heard him coming. If Boromir were here, he thought, he'd be attempting to shoot them with his bow. And if Denhamir were along, he'd be devising much more painful ways for them to die.

The trouble with Denhamir, he reflected, was that he thought about things just enough to get insane ideas, and not enough to regret putting them into action. He was an odd combination of his two older brothers, Boromir brash and heroic, Faramir no less heroic but much more introspective. Actually, Faramir amended, the one thing lacking in Denhamir was a desire to be a hero, to save—

Well. Anything, really. Denhamir was most concerned with himself, a tendency that should have been curbed when he was younger but which nobody had bothered to do anything about. The position of spoiled little brother was perfectly well filled, rounding out the family, really. A controlling father, an outspoken eldest son, a self-centred, vastly intelligent youngest son— and the middle one.

Someone threw a rock and it thudded to the ground about half a foot away from Faramir's foot. It was a large rock. He looked at it for a minute, then swung round and searched for the culprit.

Denhamir stood behind him, a slight smile on his angelic features, shoulder-length, sun-  
bright hair blowing in the slight breeze. "You have to admit," he said, "I'm getting better."

"Better? You might have hit me that time."

"Don't fret, brother. I wouldn't hurt you. Not with a rock, anyway." Denhamir's countenance was filled with a bright, open grin. "I need you around, you see, as a sort of— safety."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, suppose something were to happen to Boromir?"

"Suppose something were."

"You'd have to be there to walk in Father's steps as Steward. _I_ certainly wouldn't want the position."

Faramir shook his head and began to smile. "Yes, you certainly need me for that purpose. And dare I hope that you might enjoy my company a little? I _am_ the one who defended you when you were little, and taught you to ride."

Denhamir's grin faded, and he came to walk alongside Faramir. "Speaking of horses," he began, "Boromir is in secret conference with Father at this moment. Do you know what it is all about?"

Faramir considered gravely before answering. "It may have something to do with the spoils taken, of the last battle—"

"No, its not that, Boromir asked him and Father said it wasn't."

"Well— I do not know, in truth, Denhamir. It may have something to do with the civil unrest that is arising to the north, or perhaps the wars that have been happening more and more frequently as the forces of evil—"

"Oh," said Denhamir dismissively. "Politics."

"It's not _all_ politics, little brother. And every man has a responsibility to know the facts about the world's situation. Especially a soldier of Gondor, one who will soon be an officer, and may one day take on even more serious duties."

"I told you," said Denhamir, "I'll keep you and Boromir around for surety against my taking on the role of Steward."

Faramir shook his head. "No, Denhamir, if you are an honest man worth the exertions of your ancestors, no amount of safeties will keep you from fulfilling your responsibilities."

"Well, perhaps—" said Denhamir, but didn't finish his thought. Instead he went off to another, though related, subject. "Do you think this big war the soldiers talk of will come to pass?"

"I honestly cannot say," said Faramir gravely, "but it is true that the situation is getting— uncomfortable."

"And what of the Ring?"

Faramir looked at him swiftly, but Denhamir's eyes were on the path in front of them. "What do you know of the Ring?"

"Only that Father mentions it with a certain tone, I cannot tell exactly of what, and what the soldiers say when they think I'm not paying attention."

Faramir thought that, someday soon, he would have to find some way to stop people from treating Denhamir like he was still a child. Before that, though, he would have to find some way to stop Denhamir from _acting_ like he was still a child, and so he sighed heavily and said, "What do they say?"

"They say," said Denhamir quietly, "that the Ring will come to one worthy to lead, and he will deny it. That if the Ring falls into the hands of the Enemy, all is lost. That the Ring brings great power to the bearer."

Faramir nodded, but spoke not a word.

Denhamir looked up and his tone was lighter and louder once more. "What makes them the Enemy, anyway?"

"What do you mean?" asked Faramir, slightly shocked. "They are the _Enemy_. They have done everything possible to create a situation in which we must needs be at enmity with them in order to fight for some sort of decent life. They are the enemies of everything good in this world. They are—"

"The Enemy?" suggested Denhamir scathingly.

"Well, yes."

"How did I guess?"

"I— I don't know," Faramir admitted. Denhamir shot him a look and said,

"Who defines 'evil' ?"

"What do you mean?"

"Stop asking me 'what do I mean?' I mean, Who defines 'evil?'"

"I don't have the slightest idea," said Faramir, giving up.

"Do you mean to tell me," said Denhamir rapidly, "that we are supposed to go and fight the forces of evil when we don't even know what evil really is? Or what evil they are perpetrating? How do we know that the ones who _defined_ evil aren't actually evil? Perhaps we've been going about things the wrong way entirely and evil is good?"

Faramir sighed yet again, and walked on a little faster. "You speak too fast for me, little brother. Go off now, and convince yourself of the goodness of the world if you must. But do not speak of it to me. I have a slight headache."

He also had a bruise on his temple, most likely from Denethor. The night before, their father had been in rather a bad mood. Denhamir observed this and, with uncharacteristic consideration for his brother, refrained from commenting on it. He merely touched Faramir briefly on the shoulder and then walked off towards the town.

Behind him, Faramir sat down on the side of the road and stared sightlessly at the grass, as was his custom when engaged in deep thought.

_Who defines good and evil?_

_How do we know— ?_

* * *

Boromir walked out of the Great Hall and was quickly accosted by his youngest brother. 

"Boromir—"

He smiled at Dehamir and touseled his hair. Denhamir ducked.

"Ho, brother!" said Boromir.

"Ho?" repeated Denhamir.

"Ho!"

"Alright. Tell me, Boromir, what was the ever-so-secret conference with Father about?"

"It wasn't ever so secret. He called me out in front of all the soldiers, did he not?"

"Even so, brother. Will you not tell me?"

"I could tell you—" said Boromir jovially. "But it'd be much more fun to make you guess. Go on, guess, little brother."

"I guess," said Denhamir keenly, "that it has something drastic to do with the proposed War of the Ring, and your leaving here on some sort of mission."

Boromir farted in surprise. "How did you know, brother?"

"Because, brother, whilst you were cloistered in Father's inner chamber, I was taking a walk with our brother."

"Faramir?"

"Yes, brother," said Denhamir, gritting his teeth. "Our only other brother, Faramir. I say I was taking a walk with him—"

"Why?"

"I needed the exercise." Somehow it had slipped Denhamir's mind that Boromir could at times be maddeningly dim. For "at times" read "most times." "And we discussed this War of the Ring—"

"Did you," said Boromir, fondling his beard and nodding slowly. "Did you."

Denhamir waited for this something to come from this apparent deep cogitation, but Boromir didn't go on, just waited with a deceptively bright, alert look for Denhamir to take up the thread of conversation once more.

"And so it came to my mind that perhaps your meeting with Father would have something to do with this war. And its obvious you are going somewhere."

"Is it?" said Boromir, amazed.

"You are wearing your traveling cloak," said Denhamir, and sighed.

"Oh yes." Boromir frowned down at himself, then looked at Denhamir and smiled. "You're quick, little brother, very quick."

"Thank you. Now will you tell me where you are going?"

"I'm going to the house of Elrond, to discuss certain serious matters."

Denhamir shook his head and looked at Boromir disgustedly. "Is that all Father told you?"

Boromir shrugged. "And if it is, what has that got to do with you? Why are you so keen on knowing everything that is going on, Denhamir?"

Denhamir thought, and smiled a little. He tilted his head to one side, a habit he had learnt in his childhood and which had not failed him yet. "In order that I may be well informed about the world, of course, Brother. Do you not know that I am to be a soldier of Gondor in my own right? And as such, I would of course wish to know the positions we hold, and the missions we undertake. Does that not make sense, Brother?"

Boromir's smile widened. "Of course it does. Would you like me to ask Father if you can come with me, Denhamir? It is a few days journey at least, and you have never gone so far from the city of your birth. It would be a learning experience."

Usually, Denhamir reflected, when someone older than he said it would be a "learning experience," they meant he wouldn't enjoy it at all. Boromir said it as an enticement. Denhamir had no objection to learning, as long as he was learning about a subject he was interested in. This meant he did very little learning at all, since he approached everything with the simple question: How will this affect _me?_

"Its an idea, certainly," he said finally. "Do you think Father would object?"

Boromir's smile faded as he thought about this. In truth, it was extremely likely that Denethor would object to his youngest son going on such an adventure—

"Because if so," Denhamir went on, "you could simply authorize it yourself, and I could meet you once you are outside the city gates."

—on the other hand, Boromir was of course in a position of authority himself, and as such did not need, strictly speaking, to ask Denethor's permission about who he brought with him. Boromir worked this out to its logical conclusion and bestowed another smile on his brother.

"Of course you shall come with me. We leave in two hour's time. Be outside the city gates with a good horse and provisions."

"And a change of clothing?" suggested Denhamir.

Boromir's forehead wrinkled as he considered this. "What for?"

Denhamir smiled gently. "Never mind."

* * *

Journeying to Rivendell wasn't an unusual experience for the youngest son of the Steward, despite the fact that he'd never crossed over the land before. Much like any travel made with his brother Boromir, it was entirely taken up with riding the horses ragged and looking for small animals to practice shooting at. 

Boromir wasn't a bad shot, exactly. He was just very enthusiastic.

After he'd pinned the third ground squirrel by the tail, and his servant Athel was attempting to free it, he turned to Denhamir with a laugh.

"A good shot, was it not, brother?"

"I've been studying a concept known as evolution," said Denhamir dreamily, "and if the theories are correct, with you around the ground squirrels will learn to be born without tails."

"But it was a good shot?" inquired Boromir hopefully. Adulation in all its forms was what he lived by. It made his life worthwhile. Well, that and pot-shotting small mammals.

"The bow and arrow, as weapons, are so barbaric," said Denhamir, "that they truly are perfectly suited to your somewhat limited grasp of civilization as we know it." He accompanied this with a smile, causing Boromir to decide it was a complement instead of an insult. Boromir beamed.

"Lord," said Athel respectfully, "the arrow has gone at least a foot and a half into the ground and I cannot free it."

"Leave it, then," said Boromir carelessly. "I have others."

"But Lord, your quarry—"

"My what?"

"Your prize—"

"What?"

"The ground squirrel," supplied Denhamir, not wishing things to get unnecessarily complicated. It was too late for that, however. Boromir had decided to think things out for himself.

At long last his brow cleared. "Oh," he said ingeniously, "the ground squirrel."

"Yes, Lord."

"The ground squirrel what I shot."

"Yes, Lord."

"That."

"Yes, Lord."

By this time Denhamir had swung down from his saddle, becoming briefly tangled up in his stirrups. He'd gotten down on the wrong side, though, away from Boromir and Athel, and comforted himself that his trouble with the stirrups had gone unnoticed. Quickly he sidled over to the ground squirrel and stared down at it, tipping his head to one side.

"Are ground squirrels good to eat?" Boromir wanted to know.

"My Lord—"

"Look, would you stop calling me that?"

"But your father—"

"I don't care what Father says, I don't wish to be referred to as 'Lord' till I'm actually a Lord." Boromir settled his shoulders and harrumphed. "Only makes sense."

"Sir," said Athel carefully, "on our last expedition against the Evil Sons of the Desert—"

"The Naharrim?"

"Yes, Sir, even so. As I say, on our last expedition, Sir will recall, we attempted to eat a ground squirrel with somewhat disastrous results."

"Oh yes." Boromir frowned in thought. "We lost that battle, did we not?"

"Yes, Sir, seeing as four of our six men died from the ground squirrel."

"Ah. So— not good eating, then."

"Not without some sort of antidote ready, Sir, no."

"So leave it. Kill it, and lets move on."

"No need," said Denhamir, swinging himself up in the saddle once more.

Boromir stared at him. "Why not?"

"It has already died."

"Oh. How convenient."

_Yes,_ thought Athelscrutinizing the ravaged body of the ground squirrel, _it is certainly, irrevocably dead._

But Boromir gave the order to move on, and the misgivings of the servant went unnoticed and, soon enough, were forgotten even by Athel himself.


	3. Arriving

Thanks for the reviews, everyone, and don't forget to let me know what you thought of this chapter... This story is kind of my pride and joy right now (everything else is Van Helsing and silly, but worth checking out of course :) and I'd love to know what you think of Denhamir...

Chapter Three: Arriving

Arriving in Rivendell was a bit of an ordeal. There were trumpets, and fanfares, and elves who stared with wide, vacant eyes, and a tiny girl who came up to Boromir and said, "Will you please sign my—" just before Boromir's horse knocked her down.

"My Lord!" said Athel,unhappily.

"What did I say about calling me that?"

"But, Sir, the child—"

"Ah—" said Boromir uncomfortably, "whoever she is, tell her I'll settle the matter with her at a later date. No need to get into that in front of everyone."

"But—"

"Impatient, is she? Very well. I will speak to her now, but tell her she must not bring the child with her. It's likely to pull my beard, or something of the sort."

Athel simply stopped speaking, struck dumb by the unusual persistence of Boromir's obtuseness, and Denhamir, who'd been giggling for the past several seconds, broke into the conversation.

"Really, brother, you must tell me about your adventures in Rivendell. I'm told some of the elves are very resistant to friendly overtures by men."

Boromir blushed. "Ride on, Athel. And kindly refrain from mentioning such subjects in front of Denhamir, he is an impressionable young man and I wouldn't wish— never mind. Just ride on."

"You wouldn't wish Father to hear about any of your escapades," supplied Denhamir cheerfully. Boromir stared at him in consternation. "What'll you give me, to neglect to mention it to Father?"

"I let you accompany me, is that not enough?"

"No."

"Then—"

"You promised Faramir a colt from your mare Hannra."

"I did?"

"Yes. Funny, isn't it," said Denhamir thoughtfully, struck suddenly by the incongruity of things, "that our noble brother who is so circumspect in every detail, condescends to take bribes when it comes to Father finding out about you?" He considered. "Perhaps he knows that if Father heard some of such tales, he could possibly disown you, and perhaps Faramir doesn't wish to be Steward, either." He considered some more. "Intelligent Faramir."

"A horse, eh?" said Boromir, who had a bit of a one-track mind.

"Yes, a horse."

"Very well, I promise to give you a colt of my mare, if you refrain from carrying such slanderous tales to Father," said Boromir dutifully.

"Wonderful," said Denhamir. "And, brother—"

"Yes, brother."

"He was referring to the child whom you knocked down with your horse— "

Yet another fanfare drowned out Boromir's reaction to this, somewhat to Denhamir's regret.

There was a period that followed in which Boromir, Denhamir, and Athel were invited to sit down and have some tea. Boromir, prompted by Denhamir, refused on the basis that they'd come a long way and they wanted to get the business, whatever it was, done with as quickly as possible. They were instead led before Elrond, a tall, kingly, and rather sinfully ugly elf lord with a permanent scowl and a habit of announcing things that were perfectly obvious to everyone else.

"Ah," he said loudly, "Boromir, you are here."

"I am," said Boromir. "I'm here."

"I am glad you are here."

"I am glad I am here, also."

These two, Denhamir thought, couldn't deserve each other more.

"I see your youngest brother is here as well."

"Yes, Denhamir, my youngest brother, has accompanied me."

"Wonderful," said Lord Elrond sourly. Denhamir was reminded slightly of his father, and wondered if there was possibly some familial connection. After some consideration he put this aside as unlikely. The blood of the Steward's household was as pure human as it was possible to get. It was evident in everything they did, from Faramir's quiet earnestness, to Boromir's brash heroics, to Denethor's proud favouritism, to Denhamir's self-centredness. Briefly Denhamir wondered what his mother's fault had been. A weakness for strong, over-bearing men, perhaps.

Elrond now rose and walked to the window. Staring from it, he proclaimed, "The time has now come, Boromir of Gondor, to suppress the Evil that stirs in the hearts of many."

Boromir translated this to himself, moving his lips silently. "Ah— yes, Lord Elrond, that would probably be a good idea."

Elrond turned his inimical glare on him. "This Evil cannot be treated lightly, Boromir. It is the Ultimate Evil."

Denhamir rejoiced inwardly that there was now another capitalized letter to add to the canon.

"It is the Evil that leads to War, and Death, and Ultimate Destruction."

Conscientiously, Denhamir added these to the list.

"None shall profit by it who wish to lead their lives in peace and harmony."

This also took a few minutes to decipher, and then Boromir said, "Well— suppose we try and stop it then."

Elrond shook his head and said, slowly, "No, Boromir. The only way to stop this great Curse of Evil, this Ultimate War, this Drastic Death, this March of Doom, this Wave of Destruction, this Tide of Hate, this Bane of Man, this Horror of the Elves, this Athlete's Foot of the Dwarves— would be to take the One Ring to the Fires of Mount Doom and There Cast It Into the Flames, to Melt and Be Forever Gone." Elrond, caught up in the moment, was throwing capitals in more or less at random.

Boromir said, "Well, why don't we do that then?"

"It cannot be done," said Elrond. "Do not even think it."

"Of course it can be done," said Boromir, with the simple-minded stupidity of the simple- mindedly stupid. "All we have to do is gather together a fellowship of willing, heroic, and above all uncomplicated people who can't quite put two and two together, and convince them to take the Ring to Mount Doom and Cast it Into the Flames."

Capitals, Denhamir noted sadly, were, apparently, catching.

Eldrond took a great while to think this over, nodding slowly and trying not to squint. Then he said, "Good point."

Boromir beamed.

"I shall bring this out to the Council this evening."

"Don't neglect to mention that it was my idea."

"Of course, of course." The elf lord's face, however, held a sneakiness that Denhamir nearly laughed at, but he stopped himself in time.

Boromir turned to Denhamir, flushed and smiling. "Now, little brother, that the pressing business is taken care of— can we eat?"

"_I _can," said Denhamir, "for my part. I'm inclined to have doubts about your ability to masticate without dropping bits all over the table and depostiting salivaic residue on the unsuspecting nearby diners."

But by this time Boromir had already left the room, and Denhamir's wit went unnoticed.

This put Denhamir in a bit of a bad mood.

* * *

The Council met later that day, complete with representatives from nearly every species in Middle-Earth, save for the much-maligned Orcs. Briefly Denhamir toyed with the idea of becoming a Speaker for the Orcs— clearly they were lacking in good representation.

He mentioned as much to Boromir.

Boromir stared at him in consternation.

"Are you joking?"

"Am I laughing?" Denhamir shot back whimsically.

"No, but—"

"Then clearly I am not joking. Tell me, Boromir, don't you in your heart of hearts find it a bit unfair to relegate an entire species to doom by assuming they one and all are thoroughly Evil?" Denhamir had wanted to practice his capital letters— obviously he would have plenty of chances. He sat back and waited for Boromir's response.

It was quite a while in coming. Boromir thought hard for several seconds before divining the true meaning behind his brother's eloquence. "Um— no," he said.

Denhamir sighed.

"Well, I do. As a forward-thinking citizen of Gondor, not to mention part-time soldier and son of the Steward, I think it is time for a new age in Middle-Earth— one in which all inhabitants, regardless of their race and background, may expect the same sort of rights that, at the moment, we attribute exclusively to Men and Elves."

This one took even longer to register with Boromir, who squinted very unbecomingly. He looked as though he were wishing for an unobtrusive dictionary, possibly one he could carry around in his pocket so as to have it at the ready whenever Denhamir tried to trip him up with words.

"That is Treason, Denhamir, and I would counsel you to beware how you speak. Especially do not mention such things before our father."

"Treason? I think not. Yet I agree it is not politic to opine in such a manner, when before the ruling powers— perhaps I will mention it to Faramir. He will feel obliged to communicate it to Father— it is after all a righteous thing, is it not? And thus he will take the blame." Denhamir considered this with a slight smile. "Yes, that's the thing to do."

"We must do something about Faramir's standing with Father," said Boromir, immediately sidetracked by the allure of a topic he could understand. "He is the Steward's second heir, and were anything to happen to me—"

"God forbid," said Denhamir piously.

"Yes, yes, of course, but— I am a soldier of Gondor, it is not inconceivable. And were something to happen, Faramir would take over as Steward—"

"You needn't explain things to me, brother, I know."

"And I wonder about the psychological impact of Father's disdain."

Denhamir stared in amazement at Boromir's unusual use of long words, then laughed as it sank in. "You think that Faramir would go insane because of Father's rejection, and lead Gondor into insanity with him."

"Well, perhaps not exactly insane—" Boromir shifted uncomfortably. "But it is disconcerting to think—"

"It is worrisome, true," agreed Denhamir. "But I do not worry so much about Faramir's mind as much as his body. Think, brother— should someone treat you the way Father treats Faramir, what would you do?"

"As a soldier of Gondor— challenge him to a duel, I suppose."

"Yes. And if you had Faramir's intellect, and sense of propriety—"

"If I were like Faramir—" Boromir stopped open-mouthed and turned to Denhamir. "You suspect Faramir of harboring— ill-will towards our Father?"

"Of course, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, but I—"

"Possibly fatal ill-will," said Denhamir musingly. "Just think, Boromir, you may inherit position as Steward sooner than you supposed."

This effectively shut Boromir up and Denhamir went back to pondering the dynamics of racial integration. What would happen, suppose, if orcs and elves bred—

The seeds were planted, and Denhamir knew Boromir would never look at his younger brother quite the same way again.


	4. Various

I meant to say earlier on, but I put this picture I found on my website. It's of David Wenham, but its exactly what Denhamir looks like... except not dressed properly of course. Anyway, the site link is on my author's bio page, as the homepage, if you want to check it out.

Please continue reviewing! I'm sorry it took me so long to get this new chapter up, but.... I've been sick. cough cough Really. :)

Chapter Eight: Various

Various happenings were, well, happening that afternoon as the Council met on the Temet Pavilion. Denhamir had briefly considered attending but decided, afterwards, his time was better spent on a new project he'd come up with.

He called it "Civilian Orc Restoration." Mostly it involved intensive campaigning among the elves in Elrond's domain— very few were at all receptive.

"Excuse me, Lord, do you mind if I speak with you a moment?"

This particular elf looked puzzledly at him. "I suppose not, Sir Denhamir, but are you not meant to be attending the Council this noon?"

"Ah, who knows what is truly meant to be," said Denhamir wistfully. "All in all, when you consider the fact that in that very Council are representatives from most races, excluding merely Orcs, isn't it possible that support of said Council is rather hypocritical? They say they're fighting, banding together, for the good of the citizens of Middle-Earth— tell me truely, Lord elf, are not Orcs also citizens of our lands? True they have been exiled, ostracized from all good society, from civilization as we know it. But can that be all their fault? Should we not give them a chance?"

By this time the elf was looking at him with definite distaste in his expression. "Sir Denhamir, are you seriously and soberly suggesting that Orcs be allowed to join in this Council?"

"Why not?" asked Denhamir brightly.

"Even considering that you could find an Orc willing to engage in conversation with Men and Elves without trying to stick them full of arrows— how would you find one who also is capable of understanding words of more than one syllable?" the elf snorted.

"Ah, see, that is exactly the sort of prejudice that I am warring against," said Denhamir.

The elf went quiet and serious. "You use the word 'warring' rather lightly, Sir. I should be careful who you speak to thus."

"But I am speaking to anyone who will listen," said Denhamir. "The main criteria I look for in an listening audience is if they are breathing."

"I should be careful," repeated the elf warningly, and moved off without allowing Denhamir sufficient chance to reply.

Denhamir didn't really mind; this was actually one of the politest replies he'd received thus far during his campaigning. It was strange, but this idea had caught hold of him and he was determined to see it through to the end— or at least until the situation suggested physical harm might not be far off.

It got that way not too much later on, and when Boromir returned, shaken, from the Council, he found Denhamir seated in their rooms, holding a wet cloth over his eye.

"What happened?" Boromir asked, concerned.

Denhamir removed the cloth and displayed a purple bruise high on his cheekbone, directly below his left eye. "I made the mistake of suggesting that Orcs are people, too, to an elf who'd recently suffered a— call it a tragedy, at the hand of a band of Sauron's minions."

"Who was this elf?" Boromir demanded, immediately angry.

"I did not catch his name."

"I will find out. He will pay for striking a soldier of Gondor, an heir of the Steward's house."

"I do not wish him to be punished," said Denhamir, discovering as he spoke that, to his surprise, he spoke truth. In this case, it did not matter to him that someone suffer for bringing him harm. "I should have been more careful who I spoke with. At any rate, I was looking for results—" He gestured to his eye and grinned. "And I was rewarded."

"What did you say to him?"

"I said only what I said to everyone I spoke to this evening. But I will discuss that with you later. Tell me what occurred during the oh-so-secret Council this past noon."

"We are formed into a Fellowship," said Boromir, looking unaccustomedly grim. "We leave in two days time to travel to Mordor and destroy the One Ring."

"Ah, they did have it then, these halflings? I heard rumours this morning, but none were confirmed till now."

"Yes, a halfling had it. He and three of his kind travel with us."

"What?" said Denhamir, and laughed shortly. "What good will they do? You might as well take children."

"I know," said Boromir, sounding exasperated. "Children— or women. At least women would be of some slight use during the trip."

"Well," said Denhamir, used to his oldest brother's attitude about women, "perhaps one of the halflings is an accomplished cook."

Boromir looked confused. "I mentioned nothing about cooking." Denhamir decided to pass over this without comment.

"Who else travels with you, in this Fellowship? I trust they have not saddled you with these children alone."

"No, no— Gandalf the Grey travels with us—"

"That old man?" Denhamir laughed. "Oh, sorry. I imagine he is very, um, accomplished."

"More than some others," Boromir grumbled. "Gimli the dwarf will come, as well as Legolas, that Mirkwood elf."

"Ah, Legolas. And a dwarf as well? This should be a fun little trip."

"Also—" Boromir hesitated, then continued. "Also Aragorn, son of Arathorn, travels with us." Denhamir examined Boromir's expression. He looked decidedly torn.

"An admirable man, no doubt," Denhamir prompted.

"Who can truly know?" said Boromir gloomily. "I suspect we will find out."

"I imagine you will."

"I did not volunteer your assistance as well, brother. I did not feel I could do that without asking you first."

"I am glad."

"And perhaps after all you would rather go back home. Father could find you a position, I'm sure, with whatever level of responsibility you wished. You could assist Faramir in patrolling the shores—"

Denhamir thought for a moment and a smile spread slowly over his handsome features. "I have an idea what I truly want to do," he said. "You would be proud of me, brother— it is, for once, not self-centered in the least." He considered, nodding slowly to himself. "Truly, it is very— generous of me to think of it, I think. A position in which I can truly— help people."

Boromir smiled at him. "Will you not tell me what you think of doing?"

Denhamir mirrored his smile. "I won't. But trust me, you will hear of me."

The brothers shook hands, their features looking suddenly very much alike. Denhamir favored his mother's side, and bore more resemblance therefore to Faramir's slightly more delicate features— but the three sons of the Steward had more in common than the average onlooker might think.

Together, the two brothers went to dine.


	5. First

Chapter Nine: First

It was his first time.

In his young life, there were so many things he'd never done. First times were nearly a rule of thumb. He kept a list, in his head, of the things he hoped to accomplish. It worried him on a deep and hidden level that most of the list was comprised of events that involved only him, affected only him— where did his brothers come in, in his life? His father, his land, the memory of his mother?

But there was a war on, and as he stared in shock at the body of the man he'd just slain, he began to wonder if any of the things he'd hoped for would ever come to pass— if his life wasn't destined only to be a spark from a furnace, destined to pass away momentarily.

If he had only five minutes left to live, what would he do?

This seemed an admirable chance to find out.

Around him the battle raged, a world full of pain and anguish and suffering and blood and death. He couldn't breath. A hot wind blew, bringing to him the stench of mankind, drenching him with the scent of battle, and he could not breathe.

A long, long time ago, Faramir said in his ear, "War will make corpses of us all."

Then it was over. There was a homecoming, sadness in the slack banners, sadness in the diminished troops that marched wearily back to their fallen city. He stood before his grief-ravaged father, watching as sanity left his eyes— Boromir was dead, fallen in conflict, his head cloven in two. Faramir was gone, no one had heard of him for days, weeks, months— he'd left so long ago that even the memory of his face was beginning to be usurped by mental visions of soldiers, soldiers endlessly marching and killing and dying.

Denethor wept.

Denhamir stared in shock, his night-blue eyes wide in horror. His father was weeping with such emotion, Denhamir never would have thought it possible. His father's heartache would not be assuaged, it would be the death of him, it would bring the line down in ignominy to the youngest son, alone and weak with the eyes of all on him.

Denethor leapt to his feet with a terrible cry, and began to run.

He had reached the edges of the courtyard before anyone could react, and as Denhamir emerged at a dead run from the great hall, he watched his father fling himself off the battlements, falling— falling now in perfect silence, falling to his death, reaching out with open, welcoming arms.

The funeral was awe-inspiring and terrible, and the land looked to Denhamir to cure the people of their unrest, to rid them of the poison that sapped their strength and vitality. But Denhamir was young, and did not know what to do. The once-bright eyes turned haunted, the strong figure gaunt and withered, the handsome face deteriorated, till Denhamir found that he had slipped away. All his life he thought he had a firm grip on himself, and now he blinked and he was gone.

Insanity ran in the family, as well.

In his manner, his conversation, his dealings with others, Denhamir saw reflections of his father's unreason, Boromir's weakness, Faramir's unhappiness. He knew what was happening.

An aide came to him, a soldier of Gondor who had seen the difference between what things were now and what they had once been. He bowed before the bent figure of the Steward and said gently and urgently, "My Lord, the situation in Gondor is becoming intolerable. The people are considering revolt, and the Enemy once again masses against us."

"The Enemy," said Denhamir, with dark cynicism. "Methough we destroyed that threat long ago."

"My Lord, I fear we did not thoroughly eradicate it."

"You fear," said Denhamir, with a dusty laugh. "What care I for what you fear?"

"My Lord—" said the young soldier. "What is it then that you fear?"

"I fear—" said Denhamir hollowly. "I fear more than all else that which has come to pass."

He closed his eyes.

He woke up.

Denhamir's pillow was wet and cold with sweat, the bedclothes twisted and tangled around his lower limbs. He felt terribly weak, but forced himself to sit up and breathe deep. He looked around the room to reassure himself. It was a perfectly ordinary guest room at Rivendell, obviously well-kept by the elves. Last night, after several hours spent in the raucous company of Boromir, he'd been grateful for a cool surface on which to lay his head. Now, after that nightmare, he looked around the unfamiliar but genial room with undeniable fondness.

Was it because of the plans he'd settled upon that he dreamed in that vivid manner? Was it because he'd cast his lot with a people other than those of Gondor? Was it merely his subconscious prodding at him guiltily for not telling Boromir of what he intended to do?

Above all, he thought, was it dream— or vision?

His father certainly had tendencies towards mania.

Boromir would almost certainly get himself killed one of these days.

And if Denhamir were treated the way Faramir was treated, he would have left long ago, and good riddance to the Steward and his house.

Denhamir sighed deeply and began to unwind himself from the covers, wishing he'd thought to bring clothes to sleep in. It was undeniably cool in the early morning air here at Rivendell, and his bare legs developed gooseflesh almost immediately. He found his trousers and slipped them on, then began searching for his tunic— it took him a few moments and in the meantime he half-heartedly admired the muscles of his upper arms. Boromir and Faramir were both big men, broad-shouldered, strong, the physical embodiment of brash. Denhamir's body was much sleeker, finely-tuned— much more suited to politics than warfare, he'd always been told by his father, though politics didn't sound like a lot of fun either.

Finally attired appropriately, he left the room and walked down narrow, curving stairs, hoping he wouldn't get lost. He'd been somewhat intoxicated when the serving girl had shown him to his quarters that evening— briefly he wondered if he would be required to apologize for his conduct.

Blurrily he found his way to one of the many dining rooms— it didn't look like the one in which he had dined the evening before, but then, a dining room was a dining room was a dining room was a dining room— tangled in convoluted thought much as he had been tangled in his bedclothes half an hour before, he stumbled in sitting down and the young woman across from him said politely, "Are you alright, sir?"

"Fine," he mumbled, staring at the tablecloth. The dream would not go away.

"Is there anything I can get you, sir?"

"Breakfast," said Denhamir peremptorily.

He sensed that the woman's presence stayed seated a moment longer, then her shadow crossed over before his eyes as she went to fulfill his request. Demand, really. He wished he had the energy to apologize. But he wouldn't be here for very long, and so it didn't matter, really, did it?

He needed sustenance before facing the day. He hoped that the dream would wear away before too much longer, as he wasn't sure of his ability to face Boromir without getting supremely irritated at him. Fortunately Boromir usually slept late, and with the help of all the ale he'd consumed the night before, he'd more than likely be sleeping even later. Denhamir was supremely grateful for the fact that—

"Good morrow to you, brother!" said the jubilant voice of Boromir behind him. His big form slid into the seat next to Denhamir, and one large hand clapped him between the shoulder blades with damaging force. Denhamir winced.

"Brother— I didn't expect to see you so early."

"Yes, I can understand that. Nor did I expect to see you." Boromir laughed. "That was some ale they fed us last night, was it not?"

There was another explanation for the dream— it had been simply the product of an overwrought and extremely drunk mind. "Yes," said Denhamir fervently, "it was, surely."

But the dream refused to be dismissed so easily. In his head Denhamir heard his own voice, echoing—

I fear more than all else that which has come to pass.

The reason for Boromir's joviality was soon evident as a young maiden passed by with a shy smile, a quick glance, and a tentative wave. Boromir smiled and waved back, and Denhamir began to chuckle.

"You never miss a chance, do you?"

"I should hope not! I am only away from Father's all-seeing gaze nine months out of twelve." Boromir's voice indicated that this was far too short a time.

"Why not get married, then? Father could hardly disapprove of it then."

"Not if it gave him grandchildren, no," Boromir agreed. "And yet I do not want to be married. Not to Helene, whom you just saw." He took a deep drink from the flask of water he carried with him— at least Denhamir presumed it was water. "And not to any of the others, either." He smiled again and clapped Denhamir on the back once more. "Lets face it, little brother, if Faramir's furtive love affairs continue not to work out, you may be left with the responsibility of carrying on the family line."

Denhamir made a mental note to compare knowledge of Faramir's love life with Boromir at some later date. Now, a woman came and dropped his plate in front of him with something less than courtesy.

Denhamir looked at it. "I should like some more bread."

"Then you should get it yourself, I have done with fetching and carrying for you," said the woman, and seated herself once more across from him. Denhamir looked up, his gaze now somewhat less blurry, and saw her to be young, perhaps a year or two older than he himself, with the dark hair of the people of the south. The cloud of hair framed a face set in a stubborn scowl, and the pale, vivid eyes flared at him for a moment before returning to her own food.

"I thought you were a serving girl," said Denhamir.

"I can see where you made the mistake," said the woman, and he saw that she was a human. And more than that, she was dressed in exceptionally fine clothes. He began analyzing who she might be, and she looked up at him.

"Would you kindly stop staring at me? I get nervous when other people watch me eat."

"Fine," said Denhamir, and turned his attention to his own food.

Boromir excused himself to get a plate of his own, and when he returned, half-hidden behind the piled mass of food, he began to ask Denhamir of his plans for the day. Denhamir replied, concentrating partly on eating, partly on the conversation, partly on banishing the demons of the dream, and partly on the striking young woman across from him, who ate until her plate was clean, stood in one fluid movement, and left.

"Excuse me—" said Denhamir, reaching for and not quite capturing her sleeve. But she ignored him, sweeping onwards, leaving him more than slightly dumbfounded, staring after her.

"And so do you really plan to defeat the alien menace that stalks the horse stables?" said Boromir, oblivious to all of this as well as to the ludicrousness of what Denhamir had been telling him.

"Quite," said Denhamir blankly, and brooded, giving one-syllable answers to the next several things Boromir said. After breakfast he found, somewhat to his surprise, that the four quarters of his attention had been united— the eating over with, the conversation discounted, the demons banished— and the whole of his mind focused on the dark hair and pale eyes of the woman whose name he did not know.


	6. Last

A few answers for you all...

Here is "the lass," Nikoru. :)

Glad you liked the last chapter, Mat...

And I wasn't specifically depressed, otto's goat (Otto? Goat?) But I was seriously worried. My dad's been having some possible heart trouble for the past week. But they think its okay now, though they won't get the results back for another few days. Freaked me out for a while, I have to say.

And anyone else reading? PLEASE REVIEW!!! Uh, thanks.

Chapter Ten: Last

"Last night, I was thinking," said Boromir by way of introduction.

"Uh-huh," said Denhamir abstractedly. He was looking through the crowd, searching for a face.

"And I have come to the conclusion that you ought to travel with me, with the Fellowship."

Suddenly what his brother was saying sunk in and Denhamir fixed a look of such horrification on him that even Boromir understood it for what it was.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well— it would be good for you. Make you more rounded. As a man."

"If I want to be more rounded as a man I would eat things like that object you're attempting to stuff in your mouth." Denhamir knocked the pastry from Boromir's hand and glared at it. "I have no wish to travel to— where are you going again?"

"The land of Mordor, wherein shadows lie," said Boromir as if by rote, "to the crack of Mount Doom, there to cast the Ring in and—"

"Yes, that. I have no wish to go there. Incidentally, why don't you just take the Ring from that little hobbit person and take it back to Father? That is what he wanted you to do, isn't it? If he wanted one of his sons to travel a long ways away in perilous situations he would have sent Faramir."

Boromir thought about this and, after a moment, chuckled. "I cannot take the Ring. I have been duly warned of the effects it could have."

"By Elrond? Who listens to elves?"

"By Elrond and by Aragorn."

"What does he know," said Denhamir dismissively. "At any rate, Father wanted the Ring brought to Gondor—"

"It will not go to Gondor!" shouted Boromir. Denhamir, somewhat taken aback, closed his mouth and raised his eyebrows. Boromir sighed and shook his head.

"I do not wish to discuss it, brother. But, take my word for it. And— come with us. You might as well. What else would you do to occupy your time?"

Denhamir had, by this point, several plans teeming in his mind, but he just smiled enigmatically. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow. It is still early, and there will be plenty of time to get provisions together."

"Ah. Perhaps I too will leave tomorrow. I cannot seem to get rid of this headache." To Denhamir's mind came a sudden vision of a cool, white face, and a cool, white hand pressing against his forehead, taking away his pain. Once again he began to search among the faces of the assembled elves and humans. "Brother, do you recall the young woman who sat alongside us at breakfast?"

"The serving girl," said Boromir.

"She was not a serving girl."

"She looked like one."

"She wore clothes of rich fabric and royal design."

"She brought you breakfast," objected Boromir.

Denhamir smiled a little, reminiscently. "You do have the most annoying habit of going by appearances, brother. You must try to get past that." He turned from him and saw, like a brief flash of blinding light, the face he had been searching for. "Will you excuse me?"

"Where are you going?"Boromir enquired, but Denhamir had already walked off.

He slid through the crowd, wondering if things were always this busy amongst the elves. Ahead of him he saw a small head with thick dark hair turning aside into a shallow recess— as he attempted to follow his way was blocked by Elrond himself. Denhamir gave a slightly guilty start.

"Faramir?" said Elrond with a frown. "What are you doing here?"

"I am not Faramir. I am his younger brother, Denhamir."

"Denhamir?" amended Elrond with a frown. The elf lord had the most dour expression Denhamir had ever seen— well, apart from that of Denethor, perhaps, thought Elrond would have given even the Steward a run for his money. "What are you doing here?"

"I am attending my brother Boromir," said Denhamir. "You spoke with him yesterday?"

"Ah yes, I recall. He caused quite a disturbance in the dining halls last evening," said Elrond with a frown.

"Er, yes—"

"And I don't believe that your conduct was much more exemplary," commented Elrond, with a frown.

"I am sorry," said Denhamir perfunctorily, craning his neck to see past him.

"In fact I believe a window had to be repaired," said Elrond, frowning.

"I will see that you are reimbursed," said Denhamir. He frowned as well. It appeared to be infectious.

"It was a very expensive window—"

"Lord Elrond!" said Denhamir desperately. "Perhaps you can help me. I wish to inquire about the name of a certain person—" Taking Elrond's arm, he turned him till they could both just make out the figure of the pale-eyed girl, who sat cross-legged on a bench, examining the heel of one slipper. "The young woman. Who is she?"

"As far as I can recall," said Elrond, with a frown, "which is in all actuality quite far, her name is Brisaen. Her father is Broan of Theserisa. Her grandfather is Bronwen of Theserisa, and her great-grandfather, who attended the birth of Arwen, was Calenboren, likewise of Theserisa. Her great-great-grandfather was also Calenboren, Calenboren's father, and unless you know the sequence of the family tree in its most minute details, recounting the adventures and accomplishments of the two individuals can become quite confusing—"

Any moment, Denhamir knew, the elf lord would break into more capitals. He hastened to interrupt him.

"And she is unmarried?'

"Unmarried? Of course she's unmarried," said Elrond with a frown. "If she had been married I would have mentioned the name of her husbandly owner. I don't know what you think I—"

"Thank you," said Denhamir brusquely, and turned away.

Just in time, too, for behind his back Elrond rumbled, with a frown, "Calenboren himself was quite a Warrior, in the Time of the Anger—"

Denhamir made his escape, searching out Boromir once more. When he found and rejoined him, Boromir looked hard at him, searching his face.

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing is wrong, brother. Why?"

"You look— odd."

"Thank you very much," said Denhamir easily.

Boromir considered for a moment longer, then promptly forgot about the whole thing. "Will you still not tell me what your plan is, little brother?"

"What do you suppose it is?"

"I would guess that you intend to meet up with Faramir and patrol along with his command."

Denhamir laughed outright. "Honestly, brother, do you listen to nothing I say? Even if I say it often enough? I will not, repeat, will not even attempt to prove myself a soldier of Gondor. I will not pretend to be anything other than what I am— a self-serving, intelligent, and above all free man. I am free to choose my own path, and free to accept or not accept the consequences of my actions. There is no need to worry about me. I am quite fond of living and the only thing I truly hate is the idea of being tied down with dependents."

"You may change your mind someday," said Boromir.

"No," said Denhamir. "On this account, never."

"We will see," said Boromir.

"Certainly we will."

One night left before he departed.

One night ought to be enough.


	7. Very

Chapter Eleven: Very

Very little time had gone by between when Denhamir first saw this woman, this Brisaen, alone in the crowd, and when he finally divested himself of Boromir. But as he pressed through the people, searching for the nook in the wall where she had disappeared to, he found that she was no longer there. There was no trace of her in the surrounding areas, and so once again he began to search.

He was immediately frustrated by the sheer number of people around him--- Elves, Men, Dwarves, all were busy with various tasks, the nature of most of which Denhamir could not bear to contemplate. Despite this, he located her almost immediately.

She sat on a stone bench near one of the Great Doors (bloody capitals everywhere), apparently deeply engrossed in mending a stocking. His shadow fell on her and she did not even look up. He stood directly in front of her and she did not even look up. He sat down beside her and she did not even look up.

After some time considering this he decided that she had actually seen him coming and was now ignoring him.

He scooted closer along the bench.

"Milady, will you not talk with me?"

"I am busy, as well you know," she said quickly.

"I wish to speak with you."

"Do you wish to apologize for your behavior this morning?" She glanced up at him from underneath her eyelashes.

"Apologize?" said Denhamir. "Well— not particularly, no."

"Then I cannot imagine what else we would have to talk about."

_Boromir does it, why can't I? _Denhamir thought. He leant forward and whispered in her ear. She stabbed him in the hand with her needle.

"I do not consort with soldiers," she said.

"But I am not a soldier," said Denhamir, "at least— only technically." He sucked at his finger, which began to bleed. "That hurt, you know."

"I can only assume that your suggestion was a jest," she said, very primly. "As I am a lady of the house of Elrond, I am of course unused to such talk. In fact the terminology was nearly unintelligible, and if you promise to go away and not bother me again I shall try my best to forget it."

"House of Elrond?" said Denhamir. "But you are no elf."

"Only technically," she said, with easily-identifiable mockery. "I am a guest here. But I do not wish to give my bloodlines to strangers. Pray, sir, tell me who you are."

"I am Denhamir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor."

"Younger brother of Faramir?" she said, sitting up very straight. Her pale cheeks stained crimson.

"Yes," he said, unwillingly. He squinted at her. "What knowledge have you of my older brother?"

"Not enough," she said, almost inaudibly.

This exchange took Denhamir entirely by surprise. Quite against his will, his mouth gaped open slightly and he could do naught by stare at the young woman beside him.

"You have met Faramir?'

"Many times."

"What— what thought you of him?"

She moistened her lips and stared straight ahead. "I— I would speak well of him, and warmly, to anyone, and— not simply because you are his brother."

"I find that quite astonishing," said Denhamir. "I must admit, I did not think that Faramir was in the habit of making— favorable impressions on young ladies. Perhaps I am wrong."

She turned a glare on him. "I rather resent your tone, young man."

"Pray tell where you encountered my brother, then."

"At my fathers home, to the north of here. He was patrolling the border and they stopped with us a while."

"I don't suppose my own father will be too pleased to hear that whilst Faramir is engaged in business he takes time for pleasure."

The crimson on her face deepened. "He has done nothing wrong, and nothing dishonorable."

"Ah," said Denhamir lightly. "I see."

"Do you hate him, that you speak thus?"

"No, lady, I do not hate him. He is a good man, if a somewhat stifled one. I would like to see him grow to his full potential. I simply doubt that it is possible, in his case." Denhamir thought for a moment. "I really am pleased that you like him. Most people do. Well, with the exception of my father, of course."

The frown-lines in her forehead eased, and she leant forward. "You did not seriously intend to offend my virtue with your suggestion?"

"No, of course not. Let us call it an experiment in human nature." He smiled at her easily. "Do you know what I would like, though?"

"What, good sir?"

"Your companionship at dinner. I would willingly fetch and carry for you if it would make up for my behavior this morning."

A very, very faint smile appeared on her face, transforming the darkness of her eyes to firelight and sparkle.

"I would enjoy that, my lord Denhamir."

"Until tonight then, my lady Brisaen."

He stood and bowed to her formally, then moved off among the crowd, thinking hard.

Well, well, well.

Faramir had made a conquest all on his own. And one that no one had heard of, as well— likely he did so without even knowing of it. Young girls such as Brisaen were prone to misguided attachment to grown men who oftimes did not even realize their regard. Likely that was the way of it.

And yet, what if it was not that way?

Suppose Faramir had been attracted to Brisaen much as Denhamir had?

Denhamir resolved to think this over, though in his heart his decision was already made. Faramir was far away. It was Denhamir who was here and now, with Brisaen, and if he could not convince her to give him a good memory to go away with, he was less charming than he thought he was. And he knew that was not possible.

After all, he left the next morning. How much trouble could one person cause in one evening?


	8. Brisaen

Sorry its been so long, everybody! Hope you like this chapter, it took me all of five minutes to write! :)

Chapter Twelve: Brisaen

Brisaen was a delight, utter and unpredictable, laughing in the right places during conversation, taking Denhamir's moods in stride, and looking absolutely lovely as she glided, on his arm, into the main dining hall.

Denhamir guided her to a seat across from Boromir, who had both hands full with a disdainful elf lady on one side and a lovestruck young girl on the other. He was trying to fend off the girl and attract the elf's attention all at once, and having a hard time of it. By a series of eyebrow wiggles and pained faces, he endeavored to get Denhamir to help him out. Denhamir ignored him.

He spent the entire meal with his head bent low over Brisaen to speak with her, occasionally shooting glances at Boromir. She noticed his evident enjoyment of his brother's difficulty and commented on it.

"Do you like to see people thus discomforted?"

Denhamir's gaze returned to her and he smiled. "Why, yes, of course. It is one of life's greatest entertainments, I find."

"And is everyone to you an experiment in human nature, as you said this afternoon?"

"Most people," he said. "Though after a while some lose their appeal. And when that happens I drop them. It rarely, if ever, happens, however," he added.

A slight smile quirked Brisaen's lips. "I can see that happening to me, sometime in the future," she said. "I will become routine to you, and you will release me from your life."

"I am glad to see that you predict a future for us together," said Denhamir, and she blushed, "but I sincerely doubt that I could ever get exhausted from you. Perhaps you would be pleased to give me an opportunity to test this theory?"

She blushed again, slightly, and did not reply to this jibe. "You speak of leaving on the morrow," she said. "Will you not tell me where you intend to go?"

"I travel far," said Denhamir, " but I cannot tell you exactly my destination."

"I see. Well— I believe I may miss you, obnoxious though you are."

Denhamir smiled downwards, attempting to cut his meat with a blunt fork in his distraction.

"You look so much like Faramir I can hardly credit it," she said, watching him. "At first I found it hard to believe, based on your manner alone, that you two could be truly related. Now I believe it."

Denhamir did not wish to discuss Faramir, and said as much. "Instead, will you tell me about yourself, Brisaen? Where you grew up, what you were afraid of as a child, what kind of man you intend to marry, what you wish to do with your life."

She tipped her head to one side. "An odd question."

"Hmm? What is?"

"I have never been asked what I intend to do with my life. The others, yes, but never that."

"Well," said Denhamir after some consideration, "I think that is very indicative of the sort of people you keep company with. You ought to spend more time with me. It is practically guaranteed to broaden your mind."

She laughed. "I can fathom that easily, yes. I fear, however, that my mind would suffer in the broadening, or perhaps be broadened in ways I would not wish."

This amounted, Denhamir perceived, to a rejection of his romantic overtures. He reconciled himself to it at the moment, realizing that, as a proper young maid, it only made sense. From her standpoint anyway.

And he still had a few hours to try and convince her to change her mind.

"Tell me," he began, "when you were with Faramir, did he speak of his family at all?"

She thought about it, frowning, remembering. "We did not speak much, you understand," she said. "He was chiefly concerned with attending to my father's fears about the coming war."

"Very considerate that way, our Faramir," agreed Denhamir conscientiously.

"But he did say a few things, I believe— more about you and Boromir than anyone." She frowned slightly, small lines appearing above her eyebrows. "Incidentally, is there anyone else? I was given to understand that his mother had passed away, and I supposed, because of Faramir's reluctance to discuss his father, that something had happened to him as well. I hope I did nothing to offend his feelings or cause him grief, but if I did it was quite inadvertent— "

"Fear not, kind and gallant lady," said Denhamir expansively, "our father is alive and well. He is Steward of Gondor, you know—"

"I— somehow I thought that the Steward was your grandfather."

"You are not the first person to make that mistake, but when they mention it to his face he always corrects them immediately."

"Oh, dear."

"Do you find it odd, a bit, that Faramir did not mention our father?"

"Perhaps," she said unwillingly. "But I am sure he had many other things on his mind."

"And I am sure of that as well," said Denhamir agreeably. "Indeed, I know I certainly would, if I was around you, endeavor to keep my mind of Father as much as possible. But perhaps there is another, and more tragic, reason for Faramir's omission."

She gazed at him, wide-eyed. "Is there?"

"Faramir's relationship with Father has not always been of the greatest terms of cordiality. It is largely Father's fault, I will admit. He is headstrong and puffed up with pride, loving mostly himself, with occasionally crumbs of appreciation for myself and Boromir. But Faramir— ah, Faramir is a problem for him. He looks like our dead mother, for one thing, which Father resents. And he is brave, smart, strong, heroic, and above all quiet, which Father cannot fathom."

"So you believe that he will not speak of your father because of his relationship with him? That is very sad."

"It is sad," Denhamir agreed. "But it makes me worry, to hear you say he never spoke of him. It quite frankly makes me downright afraid—"

She poked him a little when he stopped talking. "Go on," she said. "You cannot stop now, I am worried also merely by your words."

"Far be it from me to cause a lady to fret," said Denhamir, "but— well, it is all in something Boromir said not too long ago. He was afraid that Faramir was becoming too resentful of Father's dislike, and that Faramir— would find himself forced to do something about it."

Her eyes were wide, the light in them faded. "What do you mean by this?"

"I would say nothing definite," said Denhamir. "Only— I worry a little not to be home with Father and Faramir. Just a little."

She dropped her gaze from his immediately and attacked her meal with fork and knife. "I cannot believe that you would for a moment think—"

"Keep in mind, Lady, I have known my brother much longer than you have."

"I do not wish to discuss it."

Denhamir laid a hand on hers. "Do not hate me for it," he beseeched her. "It is only concern for the well-being of my family that inspires me to speak thus. I would not for the world credit Faramir with any wrongdoing. Do not hate me for it."

She relaxed a little and returned her gaze to his face. "I do not hate you," she said sincerely. "I would commend you for your concern, rather."

They stared into each other's eyes for a bit, staring each other down. Then Dehamir relaxed as well and said, quietly, "Perhaps you would accompany me outside, Lady Brisaen?"

They were able to slip out without Boromir noticing. Denhamir led her around a corner and placed his hands on her face, brushing back the loose dark hair that felt like goose down. He kissed her hungrily until she pushed him away.

"You must tell me where you are going," she said. "I worry about you."

Denhamir smiled like a wolf. "You worry about me?"

"I do."

"I appreciate it."

"I am sure."

"You'll never like me as much as you do Faramir, though— will you?"

"Never is a very long time," she said, quietly, her eyes downcast. "All sorts of things can happen in that time."

"But you will not come with me tonight."

"I will not. I belong to no one and I intend to keep it that way for quite some time."

Denhamir laughed. "You may think you belong to no one— I am sure it is a pretty fantasy. I hate to ruin it by informing you that you belong to me, no matter what you say or might think. And apparently you belong to Faramir as well, in your heart if not in reality."

A strange and bitter smile twisted at her lips. "You are young, my lord Denhamir. I am older than you, even if not by much, and old enough to know the difference between an infatuation and belonging. In both our cases we have much to aspire to."

Denhamir watched her for a moment. "I travel to Isengard, to treat with the wizard Saruman. I do not expect to return for quite some time, but when I do, I hope to be much improved in many ways."

There was fear in her eyes and she stood up straight, clutching at his shoulder. "I would have you stay here. Or go home. Anything but what you intend to do."

"I cannot help it, my lady," said Denhamir facetiously. "You have inspired me to be a true man, to stand up and accept responsibility. Thus I take it on myself to travel to Saruman and attempt to forestall a war. Ambassador is the word for it, I think." He smiled at her again but she would not return it, only shook her head.

"I must go to bed now," she said. "You will not follow me. Do you promise?"

"I promise nothing."

"You must promise, or I will not see you again."

He hesitated for a minute, then nodded.

"I will say my goodbyes in the morning," she said, "I cannot face them tonight." Not pausing to allow him a farewell kiss, she fled, leaving behind Denhamir with a face like stone.


	9. Morning

Heeeeeeeeere's chapter thirteen! Very few reviews... (makes sad face) But I so do appreciate the ones I got.

Otto's Goat in particular: Brisaen suffers from annoyingly-headstrong-character-disease (AHCD) which affects a lot of my characters (including Denhamir, actually) and means that they don't respond in any way to my directions, commands, or orders. I'll try to make her behave, but I can't guarantee anything at this point. :)

Chapter Thirteen: Morning

Morning broke soundlessly, the sun hidden sullenly behind straggled clouds, the elves, as usual, quiet and collected as they went about their business and duties. Denhamir dragged himself out of sleep, woken by some inner sense that the time for his departure was nigh— Boromir slept on, impervious to the light filtering in through the windows, his pillow over his head. Faint, damp-sounding snores emanated from beneath it. Denhamir, shrugging on his tunic over his head, smiled briefly.

He'd had another dream the night before, one that made a deep impression on him and colored the world around him a slight lavender— he could not recall the exact details, only knew that, having had it, he did not look at things in quite the same way.

He stopped, and leant against the bedpost.

He wished for a frantic moment that he could remember the dream, whatever it was that had happened. He thought it had been good, though on reflection he could not suppose what it was that had made it enjoyable. A certain presence, felt but not acknowledged—

_Brisaen, probably_, he thought to himself with a certain amount of satisfaction. He knew immediately that this was not the case. The presence, whoever it was, was of a person yet unnamed— yet unknown, perhaps.

Denhamir resolved to forget it. He finished dressing quickly and pounced on Boromir, flicking back the bedcovers to reveal his brother's half-naked body and beating it mercilessly with a pillow. Boromir groaned slightly and kicked convulsively— by unhappy chance, his foot connected with Denhamir's nose.

Denhamir yelled.

Boromir awoke, took in the situation, and laughed.

Denhamir punched him.

Boromir blocked the blow with the pillow and grinned at him in a most infuriating manner.

Eventually they went down to breakfast hurriedly. They were both to leave that morning, and were still gulping down food, bits and pieces spilling from Boromir's mouth and adorning his bearded chin, when Gandalf the Grey came and stared at them with marked disapproval.

Denhamir looked at him and swallowed before speaking. "Is there a problem?"

"No, no, not at all," said the old man. He scrunched his mouth up to indicate that they should not take him at his word. Boromir shrugged.

"I'm coming," he said. "Fear not."

"You'd best hurry," advised Denhamir. "Those halflings are looking a bit jumpy. They may leave without you."

"Never," grumbled Boromir. "I have been hired as a pack mule."

"None could perform the task better," Denhamir assured him as his brother stood. "Beg pardon, brother, but did you intend to wipe your mouth and merely forget, or is the food in your beard being saved for later?"

Boromir swore lightly at him, smiled, then said, "Tell me, brother, do you leave at once?"

"No, I will wait for a bit. There is someone in particular that I wish to see."

"Aha." Boromir eyed him knowingly. "The woman I saw at dinner with you last evening?"

"I will not say."

"Why not?"

"Why, I have been sworn to secrecy," said Denhamir flippantly.

Boromir smiled once more, then moved to hug him. Denhamir held up a finger.

"Beard first," he said.

Boromir attended to his beard, and then Denhamir condescended to embrace him in farewell. Gandalf, watching them with a slight, irreproachable smile on his face, inquired gently, "And where go you, Denhamir son of Denethor? You do not travel with us, I know."

"No," said Denhamir. "I do not."

"Are you going our way?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Will your journey take you long?"

It was clear to Denhamir that the wizard was angling for more specific information as to his travel plans— he concealed his resentment of the old man's meddling behind his teeth as he smiled.

"I trust not. My father needs me at home."

Gandalf returned the smile, but his eyes showed that he knew Denhamir lied. However, somewhat to Denhamir's relief, he decided not to pursue the issue, and merely motioned to Boromir. Boromir smiled once more and Denhamir, and walked away.

_To fame, I hope_, thought Denhamir, smiling after him. _To a future of greatness. As he deserves, so may Boromir receive._

_So may all of us._

_Especially me._

He waited for some time, sitting alone and ignored at the dining table. He decided to go to his room to see if perhaps Brisaen was waiting for him there. Upon arrival he found a note instead—

He did not recognize the writing, but knew at once who it was from, and what it would say.

Thus he waited until he had left Rivendell before opening it.

"_My dear sir _(the letter read)

_I beg your forgiveness for reneging on our agreement to meet this morning, but must say I do not regret my actions. You must understand my position— as one who is, I must admit, extremely attached to someone of great merit, namely your brother, I cannot and will not allow my heart to be in more jeopardy. I realize that I may have no consequence in Faramir's eyes, other than as a life to cherish as he would any other, but I cannot deny myself, and the hope that I have in that way. Once again, I do not regret my actions in the slightest._

_Brisaen_"

Staring at the black handwriting, reading it once, twice, three times, Denhamir read more into it than was written. Jeopardy, she called it— danger. A victory in itself, that she acknowledge his attentions thus. And the total lack of closing, ending the letter simply with her name— that too pointed to conflicted feelings. All in all—

Denhamir smiled to himself, folding the letter back up and placing it in a saddlebag. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," he murmured to himself, eyes squinting against the sun.

But there again— it _was_ a rejection.

After some more thought, he retrieved the letter from the saddlebag, read it through once more, then crumpled it up and pitched it into the ditch at the side of the road, where it soaked through at once with ancient rainwater.

His horse walked on.


	10. Gaining

I know, I know, its been for-bloody-ever. I've been busy. Also I was kicked off FF net for reasons which I'd rather not go into (mostly because I've gone into them on several other of my fics, so people are getting sick of hearing me complaining.) But here it is, the next chapter. Incidentally, I'd like to know what people think I should do with Denhamir's relationship with Brisaen. I mean, I kind of have an idea where I'm going with it, but as I said before, they are both very head-strong individuals, so it may turn into something entirely different. So I just wondered what you all thought.

And! If you like my writing, and if you like Phantom of the Opera at all, you should check out "The True Saga Of Weak Willed Christine." Its what I would call my very first fic ever to combine randomness, hard writing, and a sense of humour in the Terry Pratchett vein. At least, I would call it that if this one hadn't already taken the description... :)

One more thing: I rearranged chapters, so as to make them longer. So if you try and review, it may say that you already have (I've noticed this on other stories) Sorry for the inconvenience, but I guess if you logout you can review that way... thanks!

Read on, dear audience, and please don't forget to review. I've got the flu, so appreciation would make me feel better... hint, hint...

Chapter Ten: Gaining

Gaining entrance to the great tower at Isengard was easier, perhaps, than he had expected. After considering his options, Denhamir managed it by dint of banging on the door and authoritatively demanding to be let in.

There was a pause.

Then the great door creaked as a smaller door set in one side of it opened a few inches. A horrid face peered out, that of an orc, the features misaligned and malformed.

"Ah," said Denhamir. "I am reminded of why your race is not, after all, allowed in civilized societies. You might put everyone off their feed."

The face glared at him and said something in a guttural language. Denhamir didn't understand what had been said, but the tone of voice left little doubt— clearly he had just been insulted. He flushed angrily.

"If you ever speak to me in such a tone again," he said, "you will be extremely sorry. I'll speak to your superiors, and you'd better hope they put you in prison, because iron bars are the only things that will prevent me from getting to you. Now, are you going to let me in or shall I just stand outside and insult your mother?"

The orc said something that sounded like, "Graa-zhak!" and slammed the door shut. Denhamir rocked back on his heels, surprised, insulted, aghast, unsure.

Then there was more rattling and the great doors swung ponderously open. Denhamir found himself facing a blackness that didn't seem to end— it went on forever— he stared into it, doubt creeping into his heart.

The orc appeared in front of him with a suddenness that made him jump.

The orc did a peculiar sideways movement that put Denhamir in mind of a crab— it took him all of five minutes to realize it was a bow.

"My master wishes to speak with you," said the orc, his speech hampered and distorted by his overabundance of teeth, most of which seemed to belong to several different people. His tone clearly indicated that he had no idea why his master would condescend to meet with such human slime as stood before him— Denhamir stood up straighter and lifted his chin.

Then he followed the orc into the blackness of the interior.

Once inside, his eyes began to adjust, and he discerned that there was actually some light, which came from extremely narrow slits high up on the walls. In his military-trained mind, he knew the advantage of windows such situated— it would take a very fortunately-aimed arrow to penetrate the keep, and a more physical ambush wouldn't be possible unless A, the attacker could fly, and B, the attacker was exceedingly thin. His anti-military-conscienceness completely ignored his military-trained mind and instead concentrated on not tripping over the stairs he now started to ascend.

It took quite a while to reach the first landing— Denhamir was breathing heavier than normal, but his toned body was able to take it without complaining too much, and he smiled in response to the gloating look the orc gave him.

"Lead on, sir orc," he said gallantly. "Incidentally, do you have a name? I expect your friends call you something humorously appropriate, like Deathface or Boarsteeth. May I do the same?"

The orc growled at him, a feral sound, and continued to lead the way upwards.

Upwards, ever upwards. Denhamir forced himself to breathe slower and deeper, concentrated on not losing his breath– they reached another landing and this time the orc didn't pause, didn't even slow down. They went on, and now Denhamir forgot, for the moment, his dignity, and simply attended to not passing out.

Step, step, step, step, ragged breath, step, step, step, step, pant, step, step, step-step-step—

Curse it, the orc was speeding up.

Well, Denhamir thought grimly, if he was angling for an apology, he would be disappointed.

Step-step-step-step-step-step-breathe in step-step-step-step-step-step-step-step-breathe out—

He was very near the verge of collapse, which he would have allowed long before he requested the orc to slow down, when the orc suddenly darted to one side of the stairwell and pushed at a section of the wall. It opened, and Denhamir saw it was a door, artfully placed in the rock, with no attendant landing to indicate its existence.

He lurched towards it, breathing heavily and trying to bring his heart rate down. The orc smiled evilly at him as he passed.

Once inside the empty room, the door slammed shut behind him. Denhamir whirled around in a panic, an old surge of his childhood claustrophobia rushing through him—

_Boromir locked him in the cellar. The last bit of light as the door closed illuminated Boromir's grinning face, Faramir's worried, almost panicked one behind him, mouth open, yelling, fists pounding on the back of his oldest brother— _

"_Father will hear about this and then you'll be sorry!"_

Denethor hadn't been, as far as Denhamir could recall.

"Greetings, my young friend," said a dire voice behind Denhamir.

Denhamir turned once more and saw there a man, where a second ago no man had been. He was tall and had long, flowing white hair. Piercing dark eyes looked out over a hooked nose. A cruel face, one used to getting what it wanted, one used to riding carelessly over carcasses as it left the battlefield—

Denhamir shivered and shook himself. Premonition? Dream? The cadence of his uncertainty was, by now, formulaic and typical enough to be almost reassuring. For a moment as he stared at the man— _man?_— in front of him, he felt the chill of a day for killing— a day not far off.

He bowed as low as he could manage. He still had not caught his breath.

"My lord Saurman," he said.

Saruman stared at him with those livid eyes. "Call no man lord, Denhamir," he intoned. "I believe that is your aim in coming here, is it not?"

"My lord sees much," murmured Denhamir, dropping his gaze hastily. He'd heard that the wizard could read minds, could look through the windows of the eyes and see the innermost thoughts and motivations of the hearts. He had never lent credence to such reports— till now. "In fact I am come on a mission of peace. I believe the proper term would be ambassador."

Saruman did not speak, but his eyes invited Denhamir to go on.

"I think the lands and peoples of Middle-Earth can be united," Denhamir obliged him. "Perhaps only with strenuous effort, which I hope I shall not have to undertake personally. Perhaps only with a series of battles that will kill off many of the more difficult members of the respective races. Perhaps not, truly, at all. But I thought it could. And so I am come to get my lord's advice on said subject."

"Are you," said Saruman softly.

Denhamir flicked his eyes up to the wizard's face, and a brief grin illuminated his countenance.

"In fact, it is also a mission of personal importance," he confided.

"So I understand," said the wizard darkly.

"You see, I wish to avoid being known throughout history as merely a soldier. I wished to avoid an ignominious death as the youngest son of the Steward of Gondor. I even wish to avoid my possible fate as Steward, with dead parents and two dead brothers to my name."

"You wish," Saruman completed for him, "to avoid any and all responsibilities that may lay in wait for you."

"My lord," repeated Denhamir, grinning, "sees much."

Saruman eyed him a moment longer. He didn't seem to find anything he liked— on the other hand he didn't call the orcs back in and have Denhamir killed either, which was, Denhamir supposed, a step in the right direction.

Finally Saruman stepped towards him and said, "We shall have to see what we can do for you."

"Yes," said Denhamir, "we certainly shall."


	11. Solitude

A/N: This is kind of a morbid day. Sorry.

Chapter: Solitude

Solitude.

It was what Denhamir craved now, as his body was wracked with pain from the scourges. He arched his back underneath them and cried out, the pain filling his mind till nothing else existed, nothing else could be thought of.

Pain.

Pain beyond what he'd ever known before.

The beatings from the creatures standing behind him as steady, more constant even, than the beat of his own heart.

Blood trickled down his back, ran around the front of his body to his ribs. He was a mess. He would never heal.

There was a banging, a pounding in his head—

He thought he would explode.

He thought that he would die if the whip hit him just one more time.

It came down on him, reopening old wounds, reinforcing new ones—

He did not die. Neither did he become numb. He felt a million pains and a stab in his heart, he felt his head leave his shoulders, he felt the loss of his limbs, he did not die. He was not alive but he was not dead.

He'd dreamt like this before, when he was a child, but not in years. In the dream, he could not remember what it had been like before— he thought it was real, that reality itself was the fantasy, that everything good that had ever passed was only the imaginings of his feverish mind.

The pieces of his broken body were laid to rest in a cold tomb, where all he could see was blue-gray stone. There he stayed for an eternity, until he felt a touch on him— somewhere— he could no longer identify which part of his body went where. He was like a jigsaw puzzle that would never be put together, it was an impossible task.

_She_ came and took the impossible task on.

He felt her hands, first, picking up his head and replacing it where it belonged, her touch healing the skin, reaching below the surface to reattach nerves and muscles. Then his arms and legs, till he was whole and human again, though he could not move. A million pins and needles danced around his joints, as though he had been but asleep. He knew that was not the case.

She came and picked him up as though he weighed nothing. She made him walk. She forced him to move.

She took him to the window and allowed him to look out on the war-drenched landscape. She said nothing, but he understood— this is what resulted from Denhamir's attempt to fix things, to take a place in history. This was the only possible consequence.

He ventured finally to look at her, to try to ascertain her identity, but it was impossible. She had no face.

He awoke to a pounding on the door. A gruff voice demanded that he get up and come at once to Saruman's throne room. Sitting up on the hard little bed, he wiped the tears of pain from his face and ran a hand down each arm, then his legs, tracing the feeling of the muscles, making sure everything was all there. When he stood he was definitely shaky.

He'd had dreams like that before, but that one—

That was the worst.

Ever.

He wondered if someone was trying to tell him something.

The dreams only reinforced his determination to avoid all culpability, all responsibility—

Which was what, he reminded himself, he was doing here.

Still trembling, he dressed himself and emerged into the passage. The evening before was quite a bit hazy, blurred by the strength of the wine he'd imbibed. Perhaps the third cup had been unwise, but he'd had a hard journey that day.

He thought he perhaps remembered sitting at the table next to Saruman—

And spilling some food in Saruman's lap—

Oops.

Suddenly recalled to himself, he grinned.

Rather a lot of food.

Mashed potatoes with gravy.

He laughed out loud. Ah, now it was all coming back. The enraged look on Saruman's stony face— classic. However, if this summons involved bending on one knee and apologizing and volunteering to do the laundry himself, Saruman was out of luck.

Now pleasantly assured of himself by all this, and with the crippling dream receding in his mind, he strode out and reached Saruman's throne room in good order. The wizard waited for him there, his always-angry eyes boring into Denhamir upon his entrance. Denhamir swept him a short bow as a morning greeting— he could not quite see saying "Good morning," or "How are you this fine day?" or "Lovely weather we're having," to the hawk-nosed visage that was currently trying to dissect him with its eyes. On top of which it appeared to be raining.

Saruman said nothing, only gestured him forwards. Denhamir obeyed.

"What lies in store for us this day?" he inquired genteelly. "I believe I informed you of my intentions last night?"

"Your intentions, and your purpose for coming here, remain to be seen," Saruman answered.

"But I thought I told you—"

"I know what you told me. Nevertheless—" Saruman's eyes never left him for a moment. "I would like to show you something, Sir Denhamir. Do you mind?"

"Provided it doesn't involve the removal of any of your clothing," said Denhamir cheerfully, "I shan't be bothered."

Saruman did not reply, but gestured him forwards again, into a corner of the room.

_Wait a moment_, Denhamir thought— _this is a round room— how did I get a corner out of a round room—? _

With some effort he banished this unfruitful train of thought from his mind and attended to what Saruman wished to show him.

There was a pedestal, made of the same black rock that the rest of the room had been carved of. Denhamir reflected briefly that this entire castle must have been a bugger for the poor laborers who created it. On the pedestal was an ambiguously-shaped lump, covered by a cloth.

Looking at Denhamir to make certain he was properly awed, Saruman whipped the cloth off in a quite unnecessarily dramatic gesture.

"This is how we will shape the future," he intoned.

Denhamir stared at it. "That? The marble?"

Saruman glowered.

"It is a palantir," he rumbled, clearly expecting more from Denhamir.

Denhamir shrugged. "Well, that's as may be, but it looks like a marble."

"It will help in our quest."

"Marble of Doom," Denhamir half-whispered, lifting his shoulders and wriggling them slightly.

For a moment, from the look on Saruman's face, he wondered if perhaps he had gone too far. Then the wizard beckoned him forth once again— that seemed to be a gesture that he was quite fond of— and gave him a command.

"Look into it. Touch it with your fingertips— lightly— thus—"

Underneath Saruman's rather frightening fingers, light blossomed in the depths of the Palantir. Denhamir, interested despite himself, drew closer and placed his fingers on it as well.

Saruman, unnoticed by him, backed off.

Denhamir was quickly immersed in what he saw in the Palantir.

There was his father, crying bitterly—

There was Faramir, fallen—

There was Boromir, his mind taken by something evil, as he chased after peasants with a mad light in his eye, swinging a double-edged axe that was already covered in blood—

There was Denhamir's dream.

He'd never seen it before— only felt it as it happened to him. Now he watched from the position of a helpless spectator as his body was tortured, observed his own beheading, watched his own death—

The eyes blinked.

_Not alive, but not dead_.

Denhamir leapt back from the Palantir, clamping his lips shut to keep himself from crying out, looking quickly to Saruman, who watched him with a keen eye.

"Illusion?" inquired Saruman with a deceptively soft voice. "Or— prophecy?"

For once, though not for long, Denhamir found himself at a loss for words.


	12. Long

**A/N: I'm so sorry to those of you who read this story, I know its been a long time. I want you to know I haven't completely abandoned you and crossed over to the dark side (AKA Phantom of the Opera fiction) but other stuff has been going on as well. Thanks for your patience, or lack of patience, whichever is appropriate.**

**Chapter 12: Long**

Long did Denhamir remain in close conference with Saruman, their heads bent together as they spoke in low voices of the coming destruction of the world. Denhamir listened, staring at the floor, as the voice of Saruman went on— marching like soldiers, thundering like cavalry, invading his ears and corrupting his mind.

Only once, when Saruman spoke of the spoils of victory, did Denhamir raise his head. The eyes were hypnotic, their depths unknown, and in them Denhamir saw himself— then the image changed and it was Brisaen he saw there, captured and bound, half frightened and half willing to please as she was delivered to Denhamir's feet.

"No," said Denhamir.

Saruman breathed in deeply and the image changed again, Brisaen coming to Denhamir of her own free will; they gazed in each other's eyes and felt half their souls bound in concordance with a law more ancient than anything they knew.

"Yes—" said Saruman. It was a suggestion, and a question.

For a long time Denhamir remained rapt in the vision he saw, his fingers twitching as he felt her hair and her skin beneath them. He did not blink.

"Yes," he said, quietly.

Afterwards he couldn't remember everything that had gone on, everything that had been discussed while they remained cloistered in that stark, cold room. His mind was overthrown with visions of men, cheering for him, and the uncompromising adulation of women. His only thought was that there must have been some sort of bargain made, for when he awoke in his room once more there was a bloody wound on his chest, over his heart.

He stood and stared down at himself for a moment.

Then he reached frantically for his pulse.

It was a tense few moments before he found it, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe while he searched, but there it was, a faint flutter underneath his fingertips. As he sat back down and buried his head in his hands, his ears were covered and gradually he heard the boom boom of his heartbeat echoing around his skull.

It was there.

It had not been taken, somehow.

What had he contracted with Saruman for? He could not remember.

It must involve the fulfillment of his wishes— even hypnotized by someone like Saruman, Denhamir was single-minded enough to stick to his guns. Therefore he must have gotten what he wanted, somehow—

But what had he given up in return?


End file.
